


There Will Be An Hour

by Jenwryn



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: F/M, PWP, Pre-Canon, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-26
Updated: 2010-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-10 07:03:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, before it all began, Arthur and Morgana competed in different ways. Pre-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Will Be An Hour

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote, uh, exactly a month ago, in the middle of the night, for a [porn/kink/whatever meme](http://tierfal.livejournal.com/204876.html) over at Tierfal's journal. The prompt was "any fandom, any pairing; an unexpected heat wave".
> 
> Morgana and Arthur aren't underage here, even if this is pre-series.
> 
> (The title, randomly enough, comes from "Growing Upside Down" by The Ditty Bops.)

And the weather licks at their skin, as they lay together, doors locked and windows barely cracked enough to let the cool air in; sheets tossed down to the floor long before now. The whole castle has given up the ghost, today, overwhelmed by the sheer pressure of the sun, and the silence tastes upon your tongue.

Morgana can hear him breathing, across the space between them. She shifts her feet. The sweat behind her knees is almost cool against the air, in contrast to the sheets. She lifts a knee higher, lets it fall sideways, and feels the same cool between her legs.

Arthur's hair is a darker shade of gold, against his forehead.

_I did that,_ she thinks. _Myself, and the sky above._

It's so bright, outside, that the blue has been bleached into some shade of white.

Morgana puts her hand against the middle of Arthur's chest. She feels the hair there, beneath her wandering palm; raises her other hand and thumbs the line of his jaw, unthinking.

"I thought you were asleep," he says, hushed, heavy; his voice deep with the husk of the air against it. He opens his eyes, slowly, as though he can feel her smiling. He pulls one of those faces of his.

"_You_ were," she taunts, like it's a contest between them. Probably it is. Everything else is. Even this, here, beneath Uther's roof, when they know he'd be livid – though, whether they're competing against him, or against each other, Morgana doesn't even know anymore. The weather stops her caring. So do Arthur's hands, when they encircle her waist, and shift her closer to him. Their bodies are boiling where they meet, as she slides her knees to either side of him, as she runs her own hands down and strokes herself against him; strokes his dick against her, when he grows harder, when she wants him. Everything's a competition, but this is a different kind, and she's lost track of the rules, as she takes him inside of her, as they meet in a lazy rhythm, quiet and slow in the thick honey of the air. Quiet and slow, beneath the touch of his fingers, beneath the journeys of her own, beneath the way that he looks at her, when she's watching through her lashes; when he thinks that she isn't. Quiet and slow, and this competition is a gamble, and the gamble is enough to make their blood spike sharply.

She pulls herself tighter against him, angling hungrily, pressing him against that place, inside of her, that makes her stomach tremble; rewards him with his name on her tongue, when he marks time within her, just the way she wants it. "Arthur," she purrs, and lets him see her, wants him to see her, as she leans her spine back further, breasts pushed out, nipples tight, hair curling against her shoulders and sticking to her neck. She likes his hands against her, likes it when they move upwards, to grasp and touch and knead at her breasts; loves it when they move downwards, to rub knuckles and thumbs between her legs, curling through the apex of dark hair, to where she wants them most.

"Morgana," he answers, teasing, warning, as he lifts her higher, and then she's sitting in his lap, her breasts pressed against his chest, their faces dangerously close. She doesn't mean to kiss him, she really doesn't, but she's not to blame if he kisses her back. "Morgana," he says again, guttural, tighter edge to his wanting; _"Morgana—"_

Morgana bites back a response, refuses, tries to, grips at his face instead and clutches her thighs tighter against him. Kisses him more; desperate, burning. He's sucking on her lip, as she falls apart around him, falls apart into heat and light and a keening version of his name that she'd never meant to utter, Arthur-Arthur-Arthur, and him inside of her, and him around her, and sweat down her back, and his hair against her face as he holds her, holds her, so tight, too tight, just tight enough. He breathes, as if she herself were his air.

She doesn't even know, anymore – as they fall, soft-hard-something-new, against each other, against her bed, against the heat that holds them steady. What the competition is. What feeds their gamble, and the risk for it.

She doesn't even know, but she can't bring herself to need to.


End file.
